


through the dark

by officiallylexie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Pining, anxious!louis, i think thats it tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiallylexie/pseuds/officiallylexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This part does not feel familiar. This feels awkward and forced, tense and fragile. Harry is a stranger now. Louis does not know Harry anymore and Harry does not know Louis. They are strangers. So much has changed and neither of them have caught each other up. It’s sad and guilt-wrenching for Louis to know that he himself is the reason behind the two of them becoming strangers. It is painful not only because Louis wishes he had tried, but it is painful also because Louis knows Harry blames himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the dark

The old, folded-up piece of lined paper burns bright in his pocket, burns a hole through the denim of his trousers as he stands up from the kitchen table quickly, so quickly that Liam flinches and a look of guilt flashes on his face. Louis stares down at him for a moment, surprised by his own actions, but happy that Liam has the decency to look ashamed. 

“You know nothing, Liam, nothing at all. So fuck out of it, okay?” he snaps and turns away, ignoring Liam’s hurried apologies as he walks to the back of his own house and into his bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. 

He tells himself continuously that Liam is only trying to help, to offer advice. Louis knows Liam is aware of what is going on, knows that he knows what he’s talking about and that yes, talking would be good for him. Talking would help him get through this. 

But how can he talk about something that he isn’t even ready to think about?

The old, folded-up piece of lined paper burns bright in his pocket. 

\-----

When Louis wakes up in the morning, he’s still in his jeans and his burgundy v-neck. His shirt has creases and wrinkles in it from having been slept in and the rolled-up cuffs of his jeans are pushed further up his legs than they originally were. 

He sits up slowly, his back cracking and his bones popping, his old bed frame creaking quietly. Ten in the morning, he reads from his alarm clock. It’s ten in the morning and the sun is shining in through the window in his room, casting down a warm, white glow onto Louis’ skin and welcoming him to the emptiness of his bedroom. 

His bedroom has been empty for what seems like years. It feels more like a prison cell than it does a bedroom. It doesn’t feel homy anymore, not like when _he_ was here. 

Louis can’t say his name, can’t think about his name. It hurts and he’s not ready for it. He’s not ready to consider everything and he certainly isn’t ready to answer the continuous phone calls and text messages that are thrown his way at least three times a day. 

He’s not ready. 

The wooden floor creaks underneath his sockless feet as he makes his way to the kitchen. It’s clean, the table, the counters, the whole kitchen is clean. He thinks Liam must have done some tidying up before he left. Maybe because he felt bad about upsetting Louis or maybe because Louis is so wrecked and Liam cannot bear to see his kitchen the same way. 

Louis doesn’t know. Louis’ doesn’t really care. He’s still mad at him, still hates him for always trying to pry his way into Louis’ problems and attempt to help, to talk to him, to reach down into the depths of his mind and pick apart what the problem is like it’s some kind of bloody maths equation. 

He knows he doesn’t actually hate Liam. He just hates the way he sees past Louis’ act of stability. 

\-----

The first text of the day comes in around eleven-thirty. It’s from _him_.

Louis doesn’t look at it, deletes it without so much as a glance at the computerised words on the bright screen of his cracked iPhone. He knows not to read the texts anymore. He knows now that reading the texts will make things harder, worse for everybody. He tells himself he’s protecting everyone, himself and _him_ and those who surround Louis. He tells himself this, but he does not always believe it.

He doesn’t have to believe it, either. He can shut it away in the back of his mind somewhere and never think about it again, bottle it up until a curious Liam says something that pops the cork on the bottle and sends the champagne of Louis’ thoughts out into the air. 

But that won’t happen anytime soon because Louis is still mad at Liam and shall not see him again until everything in his brain is secured tightly by the cork, sure not to pop off this time. 

\-----

Louis thinks it’s a bit weird. He thinks it’s odd how he carries the old, folded-up piece of lined paper around in his pocket everywhere he goes, but cannot bring himself to read the texts or answer the calls. He may not be able to open the paper and read it again, but he cannot bring himself to toss it in the bin either. It’s weird. 

“What do you want to watch?” Zayn murmurs, his hand in Louis’ hair as Louis rests his head on his lap, massaging at his scalp mindlessly. The thing about Zayn is he does not pry. He does not dig into Louis’ problems and try to find a solution. He does not ask questions nor does he treat Louis any differently than he does when he’s happy. That is the thing about Zayn and that is why he’s Louis’ best mate. And he hopes Liam feels replaced, hopes he really regrets ever mentioning _him_ and ever telling Louis what to do about it. 

Louis shrugs, turns his head toward the telly to find Zayn scrolling through the menu, lists of different programmes that are on or about to be on. He doesn’t care what they watch and he says that much to Zayn.

“Don’t really mind. Something light, humorous, maybe,” he answers before turning his head away again and closing his eyes.

Somewhere in the other room, he hears the tri-tone of a message coming through on his phone and he sighs quietly, knowingly and relaxes into Zayn’s hand in his hair and the sound of Cupcake Wars playing in the background. 

He does not get up to answer his phone. 

\-----

Vulnerability is nothing short of a terrifying factor, one of Louis’ biggest fears maybe. 

Maybe it isn’t so much vulnerability itself as it is people seeing his vulnerability, seeing him at his weakest point and knowing just how small Louis is despite his invincible façade. That is his biggest fear. 

So when Zayn convinces him to go out and have some fun, he knows it’s a bad idea. But he let’s Zayn talk him into it anyway, lets himself be driven to the club down the rode by a shady cabbie. 

The club is dark and humid, so humid that Louis’ fingers stick together, sticking also to everything he touches. There are people everywhere, crowded in and sweating alcohol and regret to come in the morning. There is music playing loudly over the speakers and Louis can feel the bass in his chest, his ears and underneath his feet.

“S’get some drinks, yeah,” Zayn yells in Louis’ ear over the music, putting a hand on his lower back and it’s comfortable with Zayn. Louis doesn’t tense up or move away because he knows Zayn, knows it’s more of a guide than it is pitying. So he follows Zayn to the bar area and sits down on a black stool beside him. 

The stool is kind of sticky with sweat and uncomfortable on Louis’ bum, but he can handle it. He thinks the smell in the club is worse than any other aspect of it. It smells like sweat and alcohol and messy blowjobs in the bathroom. 

Zayn orders them a few shots of something Louis doesn’t pay attention to and Louis watches as Zayn relaxes a little. He watches as the bleach-blonde bartender with too much visible cleavage mixes their drinks, looking bored of her life and a little miserable. 

Louis can relate. 

She hands the shots over on a red tray and Zayn picks one up, downing it quickly. Louis watches his throat bob as he swallows, watches the way his face scrunches up before straightening out. He waits until Zayn smiles at him before picking up another shot and throwing it back quickly. He swallows and visibly winces at the burn of the alcohol in the back of his throat. It feels nice and Louis feels warm. 

He’s four shots in, in the middle of the dance floor when a tall man grabs Louis by the waist and grins down at him. He’s got short hair and broad shoulders, a nice face, but _his_ is nicer. 

“Dance with me,” he says and Louis can only nod. He does not see the harm in dancing. Zayn told him to have fun, said it would be good for him. Louis trusts Zayn, so he smiles shyly and turns around, presses his back to the man’s front and grinds on him slowly. 

The man’s hands are firm and intimidating on Louis’ hips, his mouth hot and foreign as he trails kisses down the side of Louis’ neck. Louis’ eyes flutter shut momentarily, the alcohol coursing through his mind and his veins, pushing all the thoughts, good and bad, about _him_ to the back somewhere, back into the bottle. 

It’s easy like that for a while, easy grinding, easy kissing, easy easy easy. That is, until, the man moves his lips to Louis’ ear and whispers, low and raspy, “how about you come home with me, yeah.”

Louis’ freezes and his throat closes up a bit as a rush of guilt floods through him. He pulls away and looks up at the man, hands shaking a bit. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters out, voice sounding strange even to himself. “I’m - really - I should go.”

He shakes his head and offers an apologetic look before rushing to find Zayn, feeling like he’s about to crack, to shatter into a million pieces right there on the dance floor like a porcelain plate. He needs to get out of here. He needs to go home. He needs to be alone. 

When he spots Zayn dancing with some girl with purple hair and a bold laugh, he tugs at his arm and gives him a distraught look. “I think I’m going to head out, alright? I’ll get a cab,” he says in his ear, trying to keep his voice steady, but Zayn knows him better than that. He knows he does. He might not always say something about it, but he knows. 

The look Zayn gives him is nothing but protectiveness and concern, grabbing Louis’ hand gently. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks and furrows his eyebrows. Louis sucks in a sharp breath at the question. It’s a shitty question, so generic and distasteful. It’s a question that only expects one answer: I’m okay. 

But Louis is not okay. He’s never okay anymore it seems, these days. He nods despite himself and gives Zayn a small smile before pushing through the crowd of people before he can start sobbing right there. He hates crying. He doesn’t’ cry very often and he’s never cried in front of anybody except his mum, but she doesn’t count. If anyone else knows that Louis has a vulnerable side, he’d be the laughing stock of the country for months. (Maybe not, but he tells himself he would.)

That night, Louis goes home to his own shitty apartment with a claw-footed bathtub and the old, folded-up piece of lined paper burns bright into his memory bank. 

\-----

In the morning, Louis wakes up with the bass from last night ringing in his ears and the alcohol he consumed crashing waves of ache onto his head. His phone is vibrating on the nightstand. He looks at the caller ID; it’s Zayn, so he answers. 

The call his short, quick, just Zayn making sure Louis got home safely and telling him to call if he needs. Louis is grateful for having a Zayn in his life. 

When he walks to the kitchen to get some paracetamol and water, he purposely ignores the memories of last night. He ignores the memory of not getting a cab like he promised Zayn and, instead, walking home with tears in his eyes that he held back and did not allow to spill over. He ignores the wave of guilt in his chest that he feels when he thinks about _him_ , when he thought about _him_ last night. 

He ignores them because his mother always taught him that if he ignores the people who mess with him, then they will eventually stop. Maybe she was talking about bullies, but Louis thinks it’s the same concept. 

His mind is a bully. 

\-----

The day goes by slowly. Not much happens. Louis gets the few texts that he always gets and ignores them like he always ignores them. 

He sits around for the majority of the day, fiddling with his fingers and listening to the sound of a programme playing on the telly. He doesn’t know which one, doesn’t care. He’s too busy thinking, thinking of all of the things that he can stand thinking about. 

\-----

Louis gets no texts for the next week. 

There’s an occasional message from Zayn, asking how he is. Or Liam, apologising(Louis still hasn’t forgiven him). But he does not get any texts from _him_ and he can’t decide if he’s happy or sad about it. 

He thinks the logical answer is to be happy. Happy that he doesn’t have to delete the messages from his phone, doesn’t have to feel guilty, and doesn’t have to hear or feel his phone vibrate. But somehow he isn’t all too convinced that he is happy about this sudden change. 

All along, he’s told himself that the texts are dumb and that he wishes they would stop coming through, that they’re just a useless bother, but he can’t decide if he really means that or not. Maybe in some twisted way, he enjoys receiving the text messages, enjoys knowing that someone other than his friends still cared about him. Maybe the part where he hates them is just a part of his facade and he didn’t even notice until now. Maybe he’s crazy. 

He continuously tells himself that he’s wrong, that he does not like receiving the texts, though, and that seems to take it off of his mind for a while, to push it into the nearly-full bottle in the back of his mind. It’s good enough for him. 

\-----

Louis shouldn’t be surprised when he receives a text from _him_ a month after the messages have appeared to stop. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is because it’s unexpected. Having not gotten one in a while, and all that. 

He doesn’t even mean to look at the text once he reads the number, but he can’t help it. The text reads: _i’m sorry in advance .x_ and Louis wonders what it means, what hidden message is buried in that one little sentence. He does not reply, though, in fear of hurting himself and _him_ all over again. 

He’s still depressed, still a little soggy and worn-out most days. But he’s made up with Liam, finally, and he’s got Zayn too. He’s got his two best mates and that’s really all that keeps him going. He almost feels like without them, he would fall apart. And he knows he would. That’s why most nights he’s cuddled with one of them(or both) in his own bed, or fast asleep on one of their couches. 

\-----

Louis is alone tonight. 

Zayn has gone out with that girl with purple hair again - Louis has learned that her name is Perrie - and Liam is visiting his mum for the holidays. Louis thinks he should probably be doing the same, but he knows that visiting his mum means loads of questions about _him_ and about how Louis is doing. It’s been ages, but Louis still is not ready for it. 

And it’s not like he’s still miserably sulking and snapping at everyone who mentions it. He’s gotten better, really. He just isn’t ready to face the reality of it quite yet, to talk about it with people and to really come to terms with everything that has happened. He will be eventually. Just not yet. 

At around half past midnight, Louis hears a knock at his door. It’s timid, maybe, a little unsure. Louis’ first thought is Liam or Zayn, but then he remembers that they are both busy for the night. That’s when it becomes logical to assume he’s about to be murdered. 

He gets up from the couch slowly and stands on his tip-toes to peek through the hole in the door, trying to make out who it is in the dark of the late night or early morning. He can’t see much, can only make out a silhouette, but then he sees it. It’s _him_ and Louis’ heart speeds up so much he thinks it’s going to burst right out of his chest.

He stands there for a while, debating whether or not to open the door or not. A normal person would be asleep at this time, so it’s not unreasonable for Louis to feign sleep, but it is a bit selfish. He’s been ignoring the kid for ages. Maybe it’s time to face things. 

Keeping that in mind, he opens the door slowly and looks up at Harry. He doesn’t look the same. He looks older, worn-out and a bit more tired than when Louis last saw him. He’s looking down at Louis and saying nothing, his eyes red-rimmed like he’s been crying or just hasn’t slept. Louis hopes it’s the latter. 

“Hi,” Harry breathes and stuffs his hands in his coat pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels awkwardly as he huffs out a breath, both of them watching the hot air as it hits the cold night’s. 

Louis doesn’t know what to say. He halfway wants to slam the door shut and hide away in his room for the rest of his life, but another part of him wants to let Harry inside because it’s bloody freezing and no matter what happened between them, he doesn’t want Harry to get frostbite or something of that nature. 

“Can I - is it okay if I come in?” Harry asks quietly and bites his lower lip, looking at Louis. It’s the most unsure Louis has ever seen him, more nervous, more careful. 

He steps aside, opens the door wider and nods at Harry, watching as he steps in slowly, looking around as if the shitty apartment Louis does not call home has changed. It hasn’t. Louis is not big on change. 

“Still looks the same,” he comments, shrugging his coat off. He’s wearing a white sweater on underneath it and he leaves it on. Louis’ heart aches at the familiarity. 

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly, standing around awkwardly. 

This part does not feel familiar. This feels awkward and forced, tense and fragile. Harry is a stranger now. Louis does not know Harry anymore and Harry does not know Louis. They are strangers. So much has changed and neither of them have caught each other up. It’s sad and guilt-wrenching for Louis to know that he himself is the reason behind the two of them becoming strangers. It is painful not only because Louis wishes he had tried, but it is painful also because Louis knows Harry blames himself. 

\-----

“Did you get my texts?” Harry asks when they are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, both pretending not to notice how the other one is feeling. He sounds small and sad. Louis is guilty.

And Louis wants to laugh. He wants to laugh right in Harry’s face at the stupidity of the question. But he doesn’t because he knows that Harry knows Louis received the texts. Louis knows that Harry is just being passive and shying away from the question he really wants to ask which is: _Why have you been ignoring me?_

But Louis just shakes his head and looks at the wall, avoiding eye contact with Harry. “No, I didn’t,” he replies and fiddles with his fingers. 

“Okay.” 

And that’s it. 

Harry leaves a little after one in the morning and when he says goodbye, Louis doesn’t say it back, doesn’t even look at him. He can’t. He’ll break and that’s not an option. 

\-----

Harry comes back the next day, seemingly more determined and looking a bit more brave than he had last night. 

“What have I done?” he asks, demanding of Louis, but also vulnerable and fragile, like if Louis snaps at him, he’ll fall apart right there. Louis cannot handle that, so he is gentle. 

“You’ve done nothing, Harry. What are you going on about?”

“I must’ve - dammit, Louis, there has to be a reason why you ignored me,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “And, like, this is so weird. It’s not _us_. Like, I feel - I feel really disconnected and I don’t like it. I can’t stand it, Louis. I just - I need to know, like, what I did wrong. Please.”

His voice is quieter and more pleading than demanding. Louis knows he is right, but Harry is a stranger. Louis doesn’t like strangers. He can’t talk to strangers about his feelings, about anything. He can’t do this. 

“Please get out.”

“What?”

“Please leave my house.”

\-----

Louis doesn’t see Harry again for a while. He doesn’t hear from him or anything and nobody hears from Louis. He keeps his phone on Do Not Disturb and stays in his bed for a week straight, only getting up to piss and to shower and to eat dinner, only dinner. He sleeps and cries the rest of the time. 

Zayn and Liam drop by every now and then, but Louis does not answer the door, keeps it locked so no one can get in by themselves either. 

He feels lonely and it’s his fault. He feels guilty and it’s his fault. He feels like he lost one of the most important people in his life and it’s his fault. 

The old, folded-up piece of lined paper no longer burns bright in his pocket. It sits quietly in the bin in the corner of his room. 

\-----

Another week passes painfully slowly and December 23 is the day that he decides he’s not doing this anymore.

He’s not laying around in his bed, sulking about what he should have done. He’s not pining over _him_ and ignoring everybody. He’s not doing this. He can’t do this. He thinks if he takes one more day of it, he’ll die. And he probably will. That’s probably not an exaggeration considering the fact that he’s been living off of ramen noodles since the last time he saw Harry. 

He showers that morning and takes his time, goes over everything in his head and tries to calm himself down, to rid himself of all the possible anxiety that could well up on him at any moment today. 

The more he thinks, though, the more he doubts himself and the more this whole thing sounds like a terrible idea. He’s going to make a fool of himself. He’s not going to make sense of any thought that he wants to get across. His mind is full of terrifying, scary thoughts, but he blocks them out the best that he can, taking deep breaths and pushing the negativity into the bottle in the back of his mind. 

\-----

Louis’ fist is quiet against the dark wood of Harry’s door, timid and unsure just as Harry’s had been when the tables were turned, when Harry was the one going after Louis. That seems to always be the case, Harry running after Louis. Louis can’t think of a single time apart from now that it was the other way around. Harry has always had this way about him. He knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to go after it. Whereas, Louis is the opposite, always running from opportunities in fear of being rejected. 

Not this time, though. This time he’s not letting the fear of rejection or his anxiety hold him back. He’s doing this. He’s determined. 

So when Harry answers the door with a surprised little hum and a soft look on his face, Louis really can’t help it when he jumps forward and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, hugging him close and nearly causing the boy to fall over. 

“Hello to you too,” he mumbles, low and raspy as he wraps his arms around Louis’ slim waist, eyebrows furrowed. Louis feels safe. He feels warm. He feels at home and so, so happy that he could cry. So he buries his face in Harry’s chest and inhales deeply. Harry still smells like the fruity-scented body wash he uses and it’s so refreshing. 

He does pull away, though, after a few minutes and sniffles, looking up at Harry. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For pushing you away and for being unfair.”

But Harry only frowns and pulls Louis in again, kissing his hair and it makes Louis’ eyes tear up a bit. He blinks the tears away and hugs Harry close, shaking his head.

“Lou?” he hears quietly against his ear and it’s so soft and quiet that he looks up, locking eyes with Harry. “Don’t - Don’t leave, okay? Just - Just let me do this.”

Louis is a little nervous, but he nods nevertheless, telling himself that he’s gotten this far and if he turns away now, he’ll never forgive himself. So when Harry leans in and presses their lips together in a soft kiss, it takes him by surprise, but he doesn’t push Harry away, just kisses him back slowly and puts his hands on either side of his neck. 

The kiss is very careful, almost like they are both testing the waters with each other. It’s so urgent, like it’s the last time they’re ever going to do this again. Louis hopes it isn’t the last time. He’s missed the way Harry’s lips feel against his own, plump and wet and curious. 

His hands slide into Harry’s hair slowly and he tugs at a curl at the back of his head, swallowing the familiar noise Harry makes. God, he’s missed this so much. And he breathes that much into Harry’s mouth. 

But then Harry pulls away and Louis whines prettily, shaking his head and clinging to Harry. “Don’t. Please don’t,” he whispers and desperately leans up to kiss him again, gripping his shoulders. 

“Sh, come on,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ lips and leads him down the familiar hallway to his bedroom. Everything is exactly as Louis remembers, the particular shade of the walls, the pictures that are hung up, the textbooks piled on a desk in the corner. It’s all the same and Louis hopes that Harry is too. He hopes he hasn’t changed too much. 

He gently sits down on the edge of Harry’s bed and pulls him in close, kissing at his lips sweetly and smiling at the _I missed you so much_ that Harry breathes out into the kiss, returning the words in a soft, airy tone. 

He lays down and gently pulls Harry on top of him, kissing him a lot slower and just taking his time with him, really. He’s just happy to be this close to him again. They don’t feel like strangers anymore and Louis isn’t sure why that is. Maybe it’s because Louis isn’t being closed-off and private or maybe because it's not one in the morning. Whatever the reason, he’s thankful.

\-----

When Louis wakes up the next morning, Harry’s face is buried in his neck and he’s snoring quietly. It’s such a cute sight and Louis does not have the heart to wake him up. So he kisses his forehead and brushes his curls from his face gently, letting memories of yesterday flood through his mind.

Memories of lounging around Harry’s living room, talking about everything and cuddling and watching Christmas films and Harry reminding Louis of his birthday. Louis had groaned and told him to forget it because he doesn’t like to celebrate getting _older_. He’s not expecting Harry to have actually forgotten, though, and he’s a bit excited even though he won’t admit it. 

He thinks this will be the greatest birthday yet because it’s the first time he’ll spend it with Harry and he’s happy about that, happy that he took a chance and everything he was worried about ended up working out.

The old, folded-up piece of lined paper still sits in the bin in the corner of Louis’ room, but is imprinted into the front of his memory and the bottle is empty.

**Author's Note:**

> any mistakes are my own :)
> 
> the title, of course, takes after a one direction song.


End file.
